The Dragon Who Loved Me

“Lusting after what was mine.”

“I’m not sure I’m comfortable with you—”

“So I cracked his bloody head open with my hammer.”

Rhona froze and focused on the seething male before her. “You did what?”

“He survived. His head was kind of flat anyway.”

“He’s your brother!” she yel ed.

“Then he shouldn’t have looked!” Vigholf yel ed back at her.

Disgusted, she turned from him and returned to her bedrol . “You’re worse than Éibhear and Celyn!”

“I am not,” he shot back, insulted. “Unlike that Blue baby, I made it clear from the very beginning I had interest in you. The fact that my brother chose to ignore that was his own damn mistake.”

“Oh, wel , I guess that makes it al right then.”

“As far as Northlanders are concerned, it does.” He fol owed her. “You might as wel accept that I knew what my intentions toward you were from the very beginning. And the fact that you’re a Cadwaladr was simply my burden to bear.”

“Your burden to . . .” No. Best not get into that or she’d hit him again. So Rhona took a deep breath and crossed her arms over her chest. “And when exactly was the beginning of this great want? An hour or so? Two? When you kissed me this morning?”

“No. Since that night you got drunk with your cousins at Garbhán Isle.”

Rol ing her eyes, Rhona reminded him, “That happened . . . what? Two days ago?”

“Not that time. The other time. When me, Ragnar, and Meinhard brought Éibhear and Keita back from the Northlands and Outer Plains.” Frowning, “What the hel s are you talking about?”

“I was sitting up one night, staring out the window . . . missing my damn hair.” And gods, the glare she got when she laughed. “When I saw al these dragons flying low—al of you for some reason wearing eye patches—when you suddenly dropped Keita like a sack of grain.” Rhona winced at the memory. Although it was more about those ridiculous homemade eye patches than dropping Keita, but that involved a long explanation she wasn’t about to get into.

“The others went up and over the building, but you . . . you flew right into the wal by my window. Damaged the stone with that hard head of yours.”

“Oy!”

“But al I could think was, ‘Look at the tail on that one.’ You know why? Because that was my tail. And since you seem to be the only one completely oblivious to that—even after that damn kiss—let me make it clear for you . . .” He stood right in front of her and yel ed, “My tail! ” Rhona let out a breath and stepped away from him, turning her back.

Vigholf gritted his teeth, now angry with himself rather than her. This hadn’t been how he’d planned things. But the female was just so damn frustrating and confusing he had no idea where she was coming from or going!

For instance who knew she’d slam him in the knee with the butt of her gods-damn spear, forcing him down? Then who knew she’d press the tip of that spear to his throat? But that’s exactly what she did.

Vigholf gazed up at her, staring at the pretty face with the smal scar on her cheek.

“Al right,” he said, trying not to move. “I’m a prat. That don’t change how I feel, Rhona.”

“Good. That makes this a bit easier then, don’t it?”

Then she leaned down and kissed him—making Vigholf even more confused!

Chapter 19

Al this would have been so much easier if Vigholf had been just a tad clearer. Complaining about her spear and cal ing her Babysitter were not acceptable ways to show interest. At least not for Rhona.

Because Rhona was not a subtle female and she didn’t know how to read subtle either. How to understand it. She was a straightforward dragoness, and she expected that straightforwardness returned in kind.

And once she was clear on his intentions, understood them, wel , then . . . the rest was quite easy. At least for her.

So Rhona kissed him. Hard. Her tongue sliding into his mouth, tasting and teasing, her lips desperately pressed to his, surprising herself with the intensity of it al . But there real y was something about this dragon that she very much liked. Perhaps more than she was wil ing to admit. But now, out here, far away from wars and battles and troops and kin and al the other distractions that could ruin a day, al Rhona had to worry about, to think about—for once—was her and Vigholf.

And truly, it was the best feeling ever.

Vigholf never expected her to kiss him. And her kiss was desperate, demanding, which was exactly how Vigholf felt. How he’d been feeling since a tumble of brown wings, hair, and talons had slammed into the castle wal beside his room, damaging the brick and stone and his equilibrium.

Her tongue invaded his mouth and her hands pul ed at his clothes. This wasn’t what Vigholf had expected when he’d stood there staring at her ten minutes ago. Maybe another kiss he’d hoped for. A kiss that perhaps she’d return this time. One that she actual y responded to. But this . . . this was even better. And completely surprising. Especial y since this was not how things were done in the north. In the north it was kissing first, f**king later. Sometimes much later. The females of their Hordes were so protected that for them to have more than one or two lovers before their Claiming was rare. For many of the males it meant finding human pets to entertain them until they found the She-dragon they would mate with for life. But the courting process was relatively simple with actual physical contact not made until commitments had been sworn to. Even then, if there was more than one male interested—and often there was—then an event referred to as The Honour would take place. A battle until the death—or at least til a single dragon had beaten al the others into unconsciousness—so that the final dragon could claim the prize. Although since the death of Vigholf’s father, The Honour rarely took place these days among the Olgeirsson Horde.